A Weary Memory
by Jessymama
Summary: Warning: Sad fic alert! This a one shot from Ennis' perspective about fading memories and grief. Please R&R!


_Authors Note: This story is not really from Ennis' POV, but more told about his perspective. I used second person to firstly, put the reader in Ennis' position and state of mind, and secondly, to use a sort of omniscient narrator that could describe Ennis' feelings easier than if I'd used first or third person. It is a little thick, may take some patience, but I think it is worth it in the end._

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"_You'd forget your own face if you didn't have a mirror."_

_-Chuck Palahniuk, Haunted_

"_Around that time Jack began to appear in his dreams…"_

_-Annie Proulx, Brokeback Mountain_

Memory's a funny thing. Your mind can play tricks on you if you let it, and so there's always this fine line between the truth and what you want to believe as truth, a narrow mountain stream separatin' your misery and your desires.

It's funny—how you can forget that song your mother used to sing you every night when you were 'bout to fall asleep, even though the tune played through your head for half your life, and then how you can remember the look of the ocean and the feel of the water lappin' at your toes even though you've never been outside your small sad state, never been outside your little box of familiar territory, plains to the south, mountains to the north west. And yet you _remember_!

You remember all sorts a' things, some you're absolutely positive are real—your parents dyin' when you were young, your brother and sister startin' their own families, the busted transmission on the truck forcin' you to quit school, to go out and get work on ranches (even though _technically_ you weren't even old enough to drive), your sham marriage, your two daughters, and the man you loved above all else—those are things you'd never forget, things that can't be left behind no matter how hard you may try.

But then there are these little snippets of memory you're not so sure about—did you really get caught cheatin' on that grammar test, words smeared all over your palm in black ink? Did Jack really whisper those three words in your ear one night under the stars when he thought you were sleepin', did your daddy really take a tire iron to that poor old man and beat him till he was just a lumpy, fleshy mess covered in blood? It's hard to tell, the more years go by, the more certain you become that these things _did_ happen, but how can you ever be sure?

Then it comes down to the things you forget. And this is where the list starts to lengthen. It's the details, all the little details and quirks about people and places that start to slip away, start to fade like those two shirts you got hangin' in your closet have started to fade from seein' too much sun, from bein' out in the open too much, you just standin' there lookin' at them like they're some kind of holy grail. First you don't notice anythin' different about them, seem the same to you, but one day you take them off the hook so you can get a better feel for them and you happen to pull your old plaid shirt away from his old blue one and you notice the blue that's been protected by the plaid is so much deeper, so much darker. The blue jean that's been exposed, the collar and the front buttons have turned a musty gray, and then you see the colors of the old plaid have worn down to a faded yellow, the blood on the sleeves a rough brown greasy smudge. You wonder how this could have happened, right under your nose, then you swear to put those shirts away, hide them in the back of the closet, because heaven forbid they ever fade completely, or even worse, disintegrate (maybe investin' in mothballs would be a good idea) because now that's all you have of him. All except your memories. They're all that's left you.

That is till they start to fade. And when they start to go, there's nothin' you can do to stop the slow degrade, except sit on the sidelines and watch, let it happen. Your memory gets mixed up with time and time don't stop for no one, no matter how hard you may kick and scream, no matter how much you may curse, or how hard you punch the walls of your small trailer (old as hell now, but still all right), or how much you may cry at night even though the reason you're cryin's over twenty years past. None a' that matters, cause it won't stop for you. So you have to sit and wait, and hold on to what you have for as long as you have it, and you don't always have it for very long.

Six months, two weeks, four days, 16 hours, after your life lost its purpose, you drop your razor into the dirty sink of your trailer because suddenly you forgot the way that man's lips felt when they ran over your jaw and chin, the hot feel of his breath against your neck. When you drop the razor, you nick your cheek and a bead of blood slides down your face, warm and wet. It splatters against the white ceramic sink and you feel sick. You've never felt so sick. You get dressed and go to work.

Two years, three months, five days, later, you slam on the break of the ranch's pick up, nearly knockin' the young cowhand tossin' hay to the steer off the back, because you just realized you can't remember the way his voice sounded right after you'd finished making love, the deep husky way he'd chuckle as he lit up a cigarette and turn to you and ask if you were feelin' better now, if you were still beatin' that same ol' horse to death. The more you think about it, in those brief moments as the cowhand in the back is cursin' and the ignition rumblin', you realize you can't remember that man's voice at all. You think you know how it sounds, bright and boisterous, loud, big as his smile, but you can't hear it in your head, can't play it back like a recording. Of course, you remember every word he ever said, but when you revisit those moments, its your own voice runnin' through your head, sayin' his lines, doin' an impersonation of the man that used to be. Your own voice overrides _his_ voice, and now it's just another thread in the shirt faded, another section of the plaid, dulled—dye lost in the dust. You put your foot back on the gas pedal n' keep goin'.

On and on the details fade, the memories blow away. The next year it's the way he used to pucker his lips when he was angry, the year after that the way he'd run his tongue over his bottom lip when he was thinkin', a few months later, the way he played his harmonica till you wanted to break it in two. Little by little things get away from you until the next thing ya know, you can't remember the warm tight way his ass felt when you entered him, till you can't remember how he used to stroke you gently in synch with his kisses as he thrust inside you, till you've forgotten the way his eyes shone when he pressed his forehead to yours, how his stubble tickled your stomach as he made sloppy trails down towards your dick.

You don't want to lose him. You clench your jaw, and you pound your fist against the table, and you drink till you don't have to worry about forgettin', but all it does is make it worse, numb the pain as inch by inch that tire iron lodged in your chest makes its way closer to your heart.

Then, finally, twenty-three years, eight months, one week, two days, 20 hours since that good part a' you died, since the only home you ever knew left you to lie beneath the grievin' plains, you sit up in your recliner, where you half watch History's Mysteries every Tuesday at 9:00 pm, and you drop your beer on the ground because now you've forgotten his face, the rounded curve of his cheek, the way his five o'clock shadow always appeared long before it should have, the way his side burns were cut short then gradually as the times progressed, cut longer, the way that last time you saw him his eyes pierced somethin' deep inside you, how they looked like blue fire and made such a contrast against his dark hair grayin' at the temples. You forget how he had one freckle right above his lip on the left side of his mouth, how there were three more on his neck below his ear like Orion's Belt. You forget this, and you feel like you're havin' a heart attack, the pain in your chest is so bad, and you realize that the tire iron finally pierced its target, its cold metal shaft blockin' your arteries, stoppin' the blood.

Twenty-three years, eight months, two weeks, one day, 7 hours since that fateful day when the single word 'diseased' signed your own death warrant, you lie awake in your hospital bed alone. Your daughters and their daughters and sons long gone, visitin' time over, and really why would they want to stay in this place for very long? So you lie with your back to the wall, face turned to the window, moon shinin' in, and you think how funny memories are, how fuckin' awful that you could forget somethin' like the sound of a loved one's voice, or the color of the jacket he wore when you used to ride side by side through the mountains, but you still remember this one stupid story he told you about the rodeo, or about his folks, or about his family back in Texas. How funny and awful.

In the moonlight, all those years later in the hospital, the man you love is a ghost, unclear, vague around the edges and a little misty, but present nonetheless, always present, haunting. With his ghost near by, you start to drift off to sleep, you start to sink into the realm of dreams that have clung to you for twenty-three years, dreams that won't go away, dreams of the mountains, dreams of warm naked skin and wet kisses, dreams of two shirts intertwined, blood lockin' them together. When you awake you won't remember your dreams (that damned memory again), but their wake will weigh thick and warm over you like a horse blanket in the dead of winter. And as long as you can keep that sensation, as long as you know that no matter how faded the sun may make those shirts, they'll always be in the back of the closet, hung neatly on a hanger—as long as you know that, well, then you won't need the memories.

The End.


End file.
